Poetry Ourselves 2025

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New Jersey Poetry Ourselves is a program inspired by Poetry Out Loud’s National Poetry Ourselves program. This year, 7 of the 2025 State and Regional Finalists participated with the option to submit a written poem or a spoken-word poem. Over a 4-week process, students crafted their pieces with mentor Mannikka Rosa and sent their finalized versions in for judging. Over the course of 4 days, 5 judges intentionally reviewed and scored each of the twelve submissions on Structure, Voice and Style, Use of Poetic Elements, Poetic Diction, Creativity and Uniqueness. Each participant was invited to perform their submissions.

Students performed their poems on the stage on May 31, 2025. We’re proud of the participants for their courage to share their voice with the world.

Poetry Ourselves is a program of New Jersey Poetry Out Loud. New Jersey Poetry Out Loud is a project of the New Jersey State Council on the Arts and the Count Basie Center for the Arts. Poetry Out Loud is a national arts education program, led by the National Endowment for the Arts and the Poetry Foundation, in partnership with the state and jurisdictional arts agencies across the country. In New Jersey, the State Arts Council and the Basie work with a growing network of regional partners to implement the program statewide.

CONTENTS

Burnouts | 4

Layla Butterfield

Teenagers | 5

Meera Iyer

the odd thing about the holidays | 6 Rho Epstein

What If | 7 Mambo Tamukong

Spitballing, instead of a letter | 8 Lola Lam

The Director’s Cut | 10

Jake Fredericks

The Things We Lose | 12

Evelynn Knox

“T�e st�rs we�e no� pl�ck�d fr�m th� sk� fo� me�
- La�la Bu�te�fiel�

BURNOUTS

The stars were not plucked from the sky for me

They wouldn’t hang out with people like these

Not a single one was brought down to earth for us to have

We have a tendency to destroy all that is calved

Only to be admired, too far away to touch, You speak to them, but they insist you hush. They burn only brighter, we’re born burnt out. We are but nasty lout to the loud mouths.

Every star burns out the way it’s formed

Not a single one enters my hand scorned

No opportunity that graces itself in my presence

Stays very long to remain present.

The mass doomed to fail,

Our last fall from grace, We’ve set sail to sink, yet A lifeboat only extends a hand to the distinct.

Our names mark the long list of those lost, History books don’t open their arms to people like us.

“H�s ho�e be�om� ho�el�ss�

Iy�r

Teenagers

Did you find your things? Did you spread your wings?

Have you signed up for classes? Are vou pleasing the masses?

When did my hair grow down to my waist? Why does my mouth have a bitter taste?

Have you heard that song? Should I book this resort? Are the days getting long? Are my parents in court?

Should I, and where can I, whiten my shoes? Is reality really for us to choose?

Have you logged into GroupMe? Are you laughing at destiny?

Is this post careless? Has hope become hopeless?

I thought that aging would give me a break But, God, it’s been a tiring decade since 8.

“b�th sh�de� of bl�e sw�rl�d to�et��r”
- Rh� Ep�te�n

the odd thing about the holidays

the odd thing about the holidays was not all the family photos now residing on the mantel but rather that i was in none of them

it was my family encased in gold or silver or wood and yet i was nowhere

i looked and thought i saw myself for a second a hello kitty cake and bright white flash which made my small blue eyes red it was my fifth birthday but those eyes weren’t mine they belonged to some short bright blonde girl stealing my moment how could they mistake me for her?

but with each baby picture ornament, afikomen box, and spelling bee award

her name took my place over and over and over again

as i lifted up a silver frame and my eyes aligned with hers in the glass both shades of blue swirled together and i noticed, for the first time, we weren’t so different and though her name was strewn over all my objects i knew i wasn’t her but she could’ve been me so i have a message for the bright blonde girl with sticky frosting on her chubby cheeks: i love you and i’m working on loving who you’ve become

“W�at if I do�’t ma�e it�”

what If

Eyes closed as the water runs down my face

Suddenly I play my whole life as tape

A second later a thought flashes through my mind

Do I wanna be ordinary ?

Do I want to be the societal norm ?

Do I wanna live the same faith as millions ?

Follow the rule they say .. Never explaining why …

Never giving me a chance to explore for myself …

2 paths stare down at me , which do I pick ?

safety would mean fear

Risk would be too much of a gamble

What if I don’t make it ?

Do I wanna be Overwhelmed by the What Ifs ?

Asking myself down the line what would have happened if ?

What would I have become if ?

Do I wanna be another case of what if … ?

As I stare down my parents

And think of What would they have become If they had the option

Not even the option but the opportunity

What if they had an education ?

What if they never left Cameroon ?

Would my father have had his dream business

But now forced to work an inescapable 9 to 5

Would my mother still be a teacher teaching kids

But now forced to start a fresh in a whole new country

Would I be in this situation, with these opportunities

Shouldn’t I be happy I have the opportunity they never had ..

Do I make them proud or follow my heart ?

What if my heart leads down a path of misery ?

But .. What if my heart led me to the life I always dreamed of ?

Do I play it safe or do I jump ?

I don’t want to have any regrets

Regret would be too dreadful

It would mean I failed myself

Living a life filled with regrets would kill me

Which path do I walk down ?

Which life do I choose for myself !

“T�ey�d re�pe�t th�� I’� no lo�ge� cr�wl�ng�
- Lo�a La�

Spitballing, instead of a letter.

Dear sir or missus…

God - dear sounds so weird to start a letter with Not that I have something against Bambi: Just,

It reminds me of that song: My dear, My dearest… Anjelica, comma (you see how this could go wrong).

Anyways, aside from inclement social anxieties over my lack of conventional guardrails

To integrate properly into society -

To appear as an alien, and walk the same way Socially, as down the stairs when your legs are asleep: Grab, grab, stepGrab, grab, step;

And nobody would ever believe I was walking - but maybe They’d respect that I’m no longer crawling:

(CONTINUED ON PAGE 9 )

Anyway - my textbook says: Dear sir or misses:

• (Insert arbitrary sentence here asking after the health and wellbeing of subjects or family members)

• Acknowledge previous email

• Place tone:

• Remember - emails always sound colder than they actually are: So be cheerful.

• Never let the smile leave your face - even though you know they can’t see it And you know the chill is from their computer: not your voice - no, certainly not the voice they’ve never heard.

• If you wish to be professional, add an exclamation mark.

• If this is a personal matter, add a smiley face (and isn’t it sad that our personal correspondence: No - our replacement for personal correspondenceIs two dots and a curve?)

Anywayconclude with another arbitrary sentence.

• Always add your thanks, even if you’re not grateful.

• Wish them well, even if its the last thing you wish

And anyway -

This is my letter to you: Dear Sir or Missus, But I think I’ve already made my point

- Le�h Se�he Do�ne Ac�de�y in Bu�li�gt�n
Spitballing, instead of a letter. (CONTINUED FROM PAGE 8)
“Y�u to�d me to st�y si�en�”
- Ja�e Fr�de�ic�s

The Director’s Cut

We were once performers, prone to mysteries and lies. You wore a suit of shining armor, a faulty disguise. I don’t let myself be mesmerized, so I said the costume agonized my eyes, as if you would subdue your shine for me.

You told me to stay silent. So, I stayed silent.

I played your wife despite my anatomy. Our pseudo-heterosexuality, masquerading us to the highest degree. You found me backstage. We drew on wrinkles to show your false age. You whispered, “Why do I have to be ugly? They get to stare at your pretty face.”

I stayed silent. My line: “ ” Our secrets were shared in silence, anyway.

(CONTINUED ON PAGE 11)

(CONTINUED FROM PAGE 10)

You have since retired from your career. Now you sit in the director’s chair as if it’s King Henry’s throne. You behead my brain from the rest of my body, divorce my heart from my chest. Your beret is askew. I can see it from the apron of your stage.

You have retired to the auditorium housing my one man one woman show. My show. Your show.

“Do the scene again!”

“You must!”

So I do. In complete silence. As per the director’s request.

“I can’t!”
The Director’s Cut

The Things We Lose

Maybe, the things we thought we lost were never really “lost” to begin with.

Yesterday, a silver charm dancing on my wrist suddenly slipped from it’s bracelet, Maybe lying now, lonesome on some pavement.

I don’t quite remember where it fell off; all I know is that it’s gone now, drifting away like a key lost Down a sewer drain, carried off into relentless, murky depths. The charm is gone.

I like imagine that a small child will find it someday, totting alongside her mother. Eyes brightening wide with her discovery, she will tuck the little charm away, deep within the chambers of her corduroy coat, never knowing whose hands held it before hers.

It’s odd to think about where my little charm may have ended up. In a world so vast, so wide, Is there any way of knowing if I will ever find it again? Is there any possibility that it will find me?

(CONTINUED ON PAGE 13)

If Ghosts Could Speak (CONTINUED FROM PAGE 12)

Tiny remains of what once was, scattered like fallen yellow leaves. Each lonely ornament anxiously waiting to be rediscovered, rescued. Dont their previous owners remember them at all? Or long to see them again?

I think about that charm, beholding a delicate songbird gently engraved into shining sterling silver, a gift given to me by my grandfather. Now it’s out there somewhere, given to me once, now lost.

I promised I would take care of it, but the world had since woven a different tapestry, Within that tapestry I had stitched a little piece of my soul to that charm, so whoever carries it now, be it a child, or simply the earth itself, holds a part of me too.

Guilt grows like haggard roots, sinking deep into my core, roots intertwined until they are choking.

For once a bond is created, it is never really destroyed. Particles of the past that stick to our souls, like sap spewing from an old oak, sticky, stubborn, refusing to fade away.

Those particles of the past sink deep into the earth, not like plastics, but stardust, glittering, fundamentally intertwined with our essence. They never truly disappear. So maybe, the things we thought we lost were never really “lost” to begin with.

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